And Mary, wondering, but feeling it better to ask no more questions, followed them down the little path and through the two gates, both of which this time stood open. And when they first entered into the great, leafy hall, for a minute or two it seemed as deserted as the last time. But only for a minute or two.
“Sit down,” said the Cooies, very softly. “There is your place. They are all coming, and the rush may make you feel giddy.”
Then Mary saw in front of her a little mossy bank—large enough for herself and another child, perhaps. She sat down—something made her sit quite in the middle, and on each side of her, greatly to her satisfaction, for she was feeling rather shy and even a tiny atom frightened, her two friends settled themselves.
Not a moment too soon. There came such a rush through the air that she could have fancied a great wind had suddenly burst into the peaceful place, and round her, above, on every side, such a whizz and flutter of wings as would, it seemed to her, have whirled her down had she been standing upright and unprepared for them, and for a moment Mary closed her eyes.
Then the rush quieted down, and when Mary looked up again she saw a wonderful sight. Clusters and clusters of birds, on branches all round the great arbour—so many that the greenery was almost hidden. But they were all in order. As her eyes grew accustomed to them, she noticed that no two clusters were quite alike, either in size or colour or shape; they were all a little different, and then she understood that each “family” of her own Cooies’ numerous relations kept itself distinct, though all were evidently on most friendly terms, and her own two wood-pigeons seemed to have a specially important position, which pleased her to see.
But the principal personage of the day was yet to make her appearance, and the kind of hush and expectation which followed the rush of the innumerable little wings told its own tale to Mary. She sat, almost holding her breath.
Eight in front of her, though at some little distance, was a pillar or pedestal, perfectly covered with moss of an even more beautiful green than that of the beautiful exquisitely fine grass at her feet. And as Mary kept her eyes fixed on this pillar—something told her to do so—at last what they were all, the child and the hundreds of birds, waiting for, came. How it came, she could never tell. There was a movement, not as loud as a rustle even, just a movement in the air, and then—on the top of the pillar she saw the loveliest thing she had ever seen in her life. A large white dove—so white, so beautiful; and as the lovely creature slightly turned her snowy neck, Mary caught a moment’s gleam of something golden, like a thread of vivid sunshine, more than gold, if you can picture such a thing to yourselves.
It was Blanche’s dove—Mary felt sure of it now.
Then the queenly bird spoke. Her voice was like music—whether the words that came to Mary’s ears would have sounded to others like murmuring “coo-coo” only, or not, I cannot say, and it does not matter, for the little human guest understood.
“The procession may pass,” said the Queen.